Blood, Iron and Gold
Chapter 2
Hello all, I hope you're as excited as I am to continue this story. I am making small changes to the Imperial Family, the most immediate change being Pina's last name. It's changed from Pina Co Lada to Pina Co Molt. While I understand the humour, I can't take it seriously.
…
The battle, if you could call it such, was over. As the morning's dew was cooking off the grass, the formerly peaceful field was covered in corpses. Their flesh was still warm as their pockets were being rifled through and their weapons were stolen. Already cohorts of Legionaries were ripping the strange thundering pipes from the corpses of their enemies. Those who had survived the battle were being dragged away by Orcs and Bunny Warriors, with Legionaries close victorious army began ransacking the tent city that had once belonged to their enemy, carrying anything that caught their eye.
Mwenye Haki Shamans wove through the madness, chanting as they carried a sea of large idols on gargantuan platforms. Some idols were said to hold a mighty spirit or soul of an ancestor, while others were whispered to contain demons. Regardless of what lay within the multitude of idols, the Shamans sang their praises as they marched.
The outskirts of the camp were filled with the sound of thundering hooves as the cavalry auxiliary of the VI Legio and the House Guard of Italica flew around the lightly armoured auxiliary danced about the battlefield, their curved swords cleaving through skulls with ease. Those Eastern men had followed the Legate out of respect rather than fear or by force, and they gleefully fought for lumbering forms of the House Guards thundered towards the enemy, each man's beautiful armour glinted in the morning sun. Their lances punched through flesh and muscle with startling ease, as their fleeing foe lacked any armour. Months of impatience were being unleashed upon those poor wretches as their mounted pursuers eagerly trampled over them in their pursuit of more men to kill.
The camp of the Coalition was no less chaotic, as hordes of cheering soldiers were dragging their spoils back up the hill, with every item being marked by the army of merchants that followed Count Formal. Their eyes gleamed with greed as the pile of pikes and trinkets grew until it loomed over the smaller tents with ease. Copper and silver coins were soon flowing like water amongst the soldiers, even as those same merchants sold these foreign prizes for gold amongst themselves.
Nevertheless, gangs of soldiers made their way towards the endless array of entertainment tents, be it gambling, drinking or other vices. Despite the early hour, the air was heavy with the noise of debauchery and hedonism; and none dared to stop it. Legion Centurions and their counterparts amongst their allies stared at those strange thundering pipes, many attempting to recreate the spectacle with little success. In frustration, many began to drink and place bets on the outcome of one officer or another, leading to a bizarre game of chance being played. The sounds of cracking and brief flashes of fire could sometimes be heard from the officer's tents, followed by rowdy laughter.
It wasn't the thundering pipes that were the greatest prize, no it was the Great Thunderer that their enemy had used against them in that final charge that had all the attention. Even those at the far end of the hill had heard the mighty cry, a bellow to match Hardy himself. They had captured three men near it, two peasants whose bodies were blackened from the strange black dust they had carried around in what had looked like wineskins.
While they couldn't understand what it was, they had seen the thundering pipes be loaded with the stuff before unleashing their lesser cries. The last man was a portly fellow in armour, his large body being carried by two Orcs that grumbled the entire journey back to the hill.
As the immense Great Thunderer was pulled through the camp by a team of horses after it was lashed to a wagon, those nearby gawked in awe at what they saw. A deadly weapon of war loomed in front of them, and if the hole in the bottom of the hill was any hint, it was brutally potent.
That sense of joy and excitement vanished completely in a certain heavily guarded section of the camp; as fields of cages and auction blocks had been set up to sell the most valuable resource...Human beings. Hundreds of defeated men were hoisted and shoved atop auction blocks to the chorus of howling voices and clattering coins. This section of the camp was packed to bursting as Humans and Demihuman raced to outbid the other.
Bunny Warriors bet high for the strongest or best looking among the survivors to breed a strong generation. Many of those same warriors had seen the Saderan Empire defile and destroy their homeland, yet the irony of their actions failed to reach them. They laughed and drank as the bets came in, their excitement becoming as intoxicating as the alcohol. The Orcs of Yatra pooled their money to buy slaves in bulk. The Yatra tradition of harems of defeated enemies was a strong one, even after so long. Regardless of the gender of the Orcs, they eagerly paid the price to heighten their standing amongst their kin.
Centurions of the VI Legio bellowed for the scarred men, those whose minds and bodies were hardened by trauma or conflict. Some saw kindred spirits with their former enemies, while others saw cannon fodder, their keen eyes burning with excitement regardless. Two hundred of their original twenty thousand lay dead, their souls sent to the afterlife by fiendish weapons. Despite this, they sought to unlock such devilry for themselves if only to spare themselves the losses.
Shamans of the Mwenye Haki spat and jeered when those black-robed clerics were hauled atop the blocks, the orders of Kayembe being clear. Those that would preach falsehoods were to be sacrificed to the Gods, hopefully, the blood of heathen priests would bring them strength and fortune against their enemies. Those spiritual leaders felt nothing but anger towards the heathen priests who built grand buildings while the people starved.
But it was those left behind that would suffer ironically the most mundane of fates. They would not face amorous advances or the altar, no, they were to be sold as house slaves, indentured to their buyers or the leaders of the expedition. Their lives would be filled with the mundane horrors of the slave trade, but it would probably be the least horrific. Not that this thought brought comfort to those peasants who found their fate forever changed.
Far away from that place of misery were the Medici tents. Those few who knew of the medical arts slaved away at their charges, their tents filled with a small army of physicians. They rushed around their city of tents, the air filled with the shouts of wounded men. Human and Demihuman, ally and enemy alike were placed on an ocean of mats, some screaming in their native tongues, others lost in unconsciousness.
And it was in this sea of pain that Dominic MacManus, Abbot of Sligo County woke up. Even before opening his eyes, the priest felt a blinding pain bloom inside his skull, forcing him to stay completely still. As he clenched his eyes shut, he could hear the groans of the wounded around him.
Some were howling out what could only curse in strange tongues, while others chanted under their breath. Amongst the madness, Dominic felt his heart go out to those suffering and began to pray.
"Heavenly Father, hallowed be thy name. Deliver us from this pain and the clutches of the wicked, praise be your Holy Name...Amen." The scattered and simple prayer brought Dominic a moment of peace, the pain slowly fading the longer he repeated the prayer.
After what felt like forever, the Abbot slowly opened his eyes, a brief twinge of pain heralding the light that met him. For a moment, he saw nothing as he was blinded by what he thought was the midday sun. But as he slowly regained his vision, Dominic noticed that it was merely a candle lamp that was being carried by a man standing over him.
"Where am I?" He choked out, feeling like he had not drank water in years.
But the man with the candle said nothing, merely extending a hand to him. Accepting it, the Bishop was slowly helped up, his legs feeling like they were about to give out under him. After a moment, the man nodded towards him, calling out in what sounded like garbled Latin.
Almost immediately, several armed men marched into the tent city, carefully avoiding the suffering around them. As they neared him, Dominic noticed that all of them were heavily scarred, with missing eyes or ears being common. Without a word, they grabbed his arm and began pulling him away.
"Where are you taking me? What's going on?" He asked, hoping that someone, anyone would answer him. But the men around said nothing, staring at him with uncaring expressions that held no sympathy for their charge.
Dominic was marched out of the tent, away from the groans of the wounded and the stench of blood. As he was led around the camp, he flinched upon seeing the scenes that unfolded before him. Gangs of men were chained together and led around by their new owners, some being lucky enough to be loaded onto wagons before being sent back on the road to Sligo. There were groups of grandly armoured knights who sang and danced amongst themselves, groups of inhuman creatures joining the riotous scene. They ranged from the nearly Human to entirely alien, yet they were treated by those grand knights as equals.
"What manner of devils are they?" Dominic thought to himself but his thoughts were broken by his guard shoving him forwards towards the center of the camp. Amongst the grand tents and militant barracks was a simple tent made of grey canvas, its entrance adorned by a bright yellow flag with a strange circle in the center. As he was brought towards this oddly humble-looking tent, his eyes widened as he noticed the beings that guarded the entrance.
They were larger than a man, around eight feet tall, with scarred green flesh, tusks that jutted out of their mouths and a wild look in their eyes. They glared at him as he was brought forwards, with one moving closer to bark a question at his captors. Although he couldn't understand a word of what they were saying, the Abbot guessed that his captors were impatient towards the guards of the tent. They argued for a moment, seemingly not sure of what to do; but they went silent as a blue flash went off from inside the tent.
For a moment, there was nothing, both groups growing visibly uneasy as they stared towards the entrance flap as if something monstrous was waiting for them. A single voice called from inside the tent, and the monstrous guards instantly parted for Dominic's captors. The moment he stepped inside, he noticed that the tent's interior was quite dim with a single candle being kept in the center of the room. In the center of the room was a small table adorned with two filled glasses and a bottle of wine; two simple chairs being placed across from each other.
At one end of the table was an ancient man with grey eyes that seemed to gaze into Dominic's soul, his expression unreadable underneath his long white beard. As soon as the Abbot was inside, his guards stepped out, each one seemingly trying to find a way to leave as quickly as possible if the way they tripped over each other was any clue. When they left, the elderly man gestured for him to sit, a faint smile being seen amongst his beard. Seeing no choice, Dominic sat down, eyeing the wine wearily.
The old man reached down and took an exaggerated sip from his glass, draining the small amount that lay inside almost instantly. As he slowly reached over to grab the bottle, the elderly man stared at Dominic, one eyebrow raised.
"Come now, drink up." The Gaelic that came out of his host's lips was fluid as if he had been speaking it his entire life. "If we had wanted you dead, the Legate would have left you for Kayembe."
"You speak Gaelic?" Dominic stared at his host in disbelief as he talked, his voice shaking with age.
"It took a bit of time, but I managed to learn it." The old man said with a wave of his hand, dismissing the question. "What is your name, my friend?"
"Dominic MacManus, Abbot of the Church of Ireland." He said, seeing no point in lying.
"Lucius Rutilus, Lord of Yatra." The man said, raising his wine glass in a toast, downing it with ease.
"Why did you bring me here?" Dominic asked, looking around the dim tent as he spoke.
"Simple, I wanted to see if I knew the language or not before I talked with the others." His archaic host replied, a small chuckle spilling out of his mouth.
"How could you not know? Either you know a language or you don't." He scoffed, staring at Lucius with amusement.
"Well, the spells I needed to cast weren't exactly my specialty."
Dominic felt a cold pit beginning to grow in his stomach. "What did you say?"
"I said that I needed to commune with this fellow here to learn the language." With a cold smile growing on his bearded face, Lucius reached underneath the table to pull out a man's rotting head.
"God's wounds!" Dominic yelled, leaping out of his chair as his eyes widened and he stared in horror at Lucius.
"Now, now, there's no need to be alarmed, the magic is perfectly safe. All it took was time." The elderly man was smiling as if he was discussing the weather, placing the rotting head in the center of the table.
"Sit down, I will not ask twice." With a wave of his hand, a small orb of flickering blue fire burst into being.
The blue light cast a baleful light around the tent, bringing a host of hideous shadows with it. Instead of the warmth that should have been radiating off that ball of fire, all Dominic felt was a chill slowly spreading through his body. Seeing no choice, he sat back down, clutching the rosary he had under his cassock.
"What are you?" He whispered, horror slowly mounting in his chest.
"Isn't it obvious? I'm a wizard, a sorcerer, whatever you call me in these parts."
"We don't have those servants of Satan here!" He hissed, only to wince as the hideous pain in his head began flaring up again.
"Well then, where exactly are we then? Tell me about you so-called God-fearing people." Lucius asked, a mocking tone dripping off his words.
Dominic's head pulsed as every second seemed to stretch into infinity, the pain threatening to last forever. As suddenly as the pain began, it left, leaving him slumping in his chair.
"You are in the Kingdom of Ireland, Sligo County to be precise. It is the year of our Lord Sixteen Forty One, and you have invaded during an….interesting time Lord Lucius."
"Oh have we now? Explain."
"My country is tearing itself to pieces, the heathen Protestants invade us from the north with England pulling their strings." He said with a sneer growing on his face. "They kill, steal and defile anything that isn't nailed down, intent on destroying our beloved Catholicism from the earth! They'll sell us into slavery or kill us outright!"
He then paused as he stared at the man in front of him. "I didn't mean-
"Oh I know what you meant, and I don't blame you for being angry. Being invaded would put anyone in a foul mood." Lucius said with a smirk growing on his face. "Tell me, what is a Protestant? What is Catholicism? And is England? A rival nation perhaps?"
At that, Dominic sneered, clenching the table as the memories of the last month flash before his eyes. "Protestants are people who reject God in favour of their deluded leaders, chanting inane phrases as they burn everything in sight. The best among them are simply misguided souls who were deceived by those touched by evil, little more than pawns by Satan."
The Bishop paused in his rant to drink from the untouched cup of wine that was laid in front of him, the chilled liquid parching his thirst with ease. "We Catholics are God Almighty's chosen flock, with His authority being passed down to His priests. The Saints watch over us and pray to the Almighty God on our behalf, as we are unworthy of His love. Unfortunately, the agents of evil have infiltrated our ranks, spreading corruption and vile behaviour amongst themselves." As Dominic spoke to the old man, he noticed his host leaned forwards, his grey eyes narrowing.
"If you are the chosen of your God as you claim, then why did he allow you to be nearly beaten to death?" Lucius asked, his skeletal hand stroking his beard.
"That is a simple question with a complicated answer my lord. You see, I haven't been an Abbot in Sligo County for very long. I was assigned here after the last Abbot was removed." Dominic replied.
"And why was that?"
"He was a vile man who stole money and abused his flock. If it were up to me, I'd see him hanging from a tree!" Dominic said as he slammed his fist onto the table.
Dominic paused as he saw his host nodding at the information, before drinking some more wine. The Abbot felt that the silence was an opportunity to continue.
"As for what England is, they are our corrupt overlords. They send their lackeys and soldiers to aid the spread of their vile faith and force our way of life to kneel before them." The tent was silent as Dominic slumped back in his chair, feeling as if a vice was slowly tightening around his chest.
"So what you're saying is that your lands and your faith are under siege by England. They will slaughter you to the last and erase you from history." As Lucius spoke, he slowly refilled his glass, his skeletal hands shaking slightly with the effort. "So I have an offer for you. I will speak to my allies on your people's behalf, and in return, you will act as our friendly face."
"So you'd use me as to what, some kind of puppet?"
"Oh don't be so dramatic, I merely need someone like yourself to act as our representative to the people. If you work with me, you'll be able to remove the corrupt members of your faith."
"How do I know I can trust you?"
"You can't know for certain, isn't that exciting? For all you know I could have men ready to kill you the moment you leave this tent!" His smile became somewhat twisted as he leaned closer, his grey eyes appearing fragile and frenzied in equal measure. "But you have no choice but to trust me. Your entire world is circling the abyss, invasions on both sides, and without aid, your people will be wiped out." Lucius's smile continued to grow as he then rose slowly to his feet, that rotting skull in one hand.
"Go back to the Medici tent Abbot, think about my offer. You have until tomorrow evening to give me an answer. I do hope your god gives you wisdom, for your people's sake." His host barked out a command in a guttural tongue, and almost instantly, two of those green-skinned beasts from before appeared, grabbing his shoulders and shoving him outside the tent.
As Dominic was led back through the camp, he noticed a host of birds were circling his guards, their beady eyes seeming to burn a hole through him. With each step feeling heavier, the Abbot felt relief as he laid back down on his mat. Within moments, his vision began to darken, and the comforting abyss of sleep consumed him; whisking him away from the world of sorcerers, devils and the madness of war.
….
By the end of the day, things had mostly calmed down inside the camp. The auctions had long since ceased, with the unfortunate souls being sent to a myriad of new homes, some being far more horrible than others. The cooking tents were filled to bursting with servants and soldiers alike, drinking, singing and brawling amongst themselves; each one gleeful over their morning victory.
Every soldier who was celebrating knew the cost of the battle, as three hundred of their comrades lay dead.
Overzealous Orcs were impaled by pikes, while the volley of the thundering pipes reduced the armour and shields of the Legion and Housecarls to nothing at such a close range. The skirmishers loyal to Kayembe who wore little armour were shredded by that strange devilry. Their bodies, Human and Demihuman alike, were being sent back to their settlement to be buried in their traditions. The air was alive with excitement and mourning in equal measure. With some drinking their sorrows away one moment only to celebrate their victory later that same day.
"Such is the fickle nature of Humanity." Ayen Leoleth thought to himself as he walked through the camp. His hood was up, keeping his ears covered from sight as he passed by the swarms of his so-called allies.
He spied the countless idols of the Mwenye Haki being carried through the ocean of people, each one nodding their heads in respect which he returned. He knew each Shaman by name, as he had known the names of the past three generations of their bloodlines. He had been with the Mwenye Haki for two hundred years, bringing with him that burning hate that had kept him alive. As he walked past the barracks of Count Formal, Ayen Leoleth paused at the sight that awaited him.
A large group of the Italica House Guards were sitting around a table laden with food and drink pulled from all corners of the Saderan Empire. Pelts of exotic beasts and trophies from their heroic battles adorned the barracks, and those grand guards were merry. They sang and danced as their fellows played music, but it was the large group that had added to the chorus with their voices that caught his ear.
The language that reached his ears was one that he hadn't heard in two hundred years, ever since he had been lost at sea all those years ago. The beautiful Elvish tongue washed over him, dredging up long-dead memories and the ancient dead, and for the first time in over a century, he remembered her.
He stood there, watching them laughing and singing Elves as a pit of envy began to sprout in his stomach.
"You would have loved this Alissa" He muttered to himself, the memory of her long blonde hair flashing in his mind's eye. He closed his eyes as if to savour the memories that began to flood in. Her brilliant smile, her bright blue eyes….
"Hi!"
Startled, Ayen opened his eyes to freeze as someone who could pass as Alissa's twin stared at him, a large smile on her face.
"I'm Tuka Luna Marceau of Koan Village! What's your name?"
Ayen stared at the Elf who stood there smiling, and it took everything he had to force something out of his mouth.
"Ayen Leoleth." He said, doing his best to stop staring.
"Well, it's nice to meet you Mr. Ayen, my clan and I are having dinner with the Count's men. There's more than enough food to go around, and I'd like to get to know you better." She said with a smile, one that instantly lit up the area.
"It's not her, she's long gone. You can't let yourself be distracted…." Despite those thoughts rolling around his mind, Ayen found himself being led into the tent. Immediately the sounds of revelry filled his ears as Elves and Men alike drank and feasted. The musical talents of his people were on full display tonight, with harps and songs being sung. He doubted that the grandly armoured men could understand the words, but Ayen was surprised to see Humans being so at ease amongst his kind.
"The House Guard of Italica are remarkable aren't they?" A new voice cut through Ayen's thoughts. The one-eyed elf turned to see a smiling Elf who bore a striking resemblance to Tuka.
"How are they so…." Ayen gestured to the odd scene that was unfolding before him.
"At peace? To make a long story short, our clan rescued the daughters of Count Formal from bandits. The Count and his forces have been treating us like family ever since, hell, we've been offered a rather large plot of land for our people to settle."
The Elf said as he drank from a goblet of wine. "Hodor Marceau's my name and you've already met my daughter Tuka. I must admit, I was surprised to see one of our own here. What's your story?" The older Elf smiled as he spoke.
"It's a long story, but to make it short, I was a galley slave." Hodor winced at the words, as being a galley slave was almost as gruelling as working in the mines. "The ship I was on crashed near the Afri coast, with only a few of us managing to survive. I was fortunate enough to be found by the Mwenye Haki, and I have been with them ever since." Ayen glanced at the elf next to him, feeling increasingly on guard the longer he sat in his presence. "He's slimy, I can't trust him."He thought to himself as he joined in with the revelry, his one eye trained on his newest acquaintance.
As the night went on and the wine flowed like water, Ayen noticed that his companion had slipped away with several Elven women, leaving his daughter alone. She stared at the empty seat that her father had once occupied with a pained look on her face.
Ayen felt his legs moving before his mind could catch up, sitting next to Tuka. He shared a silent smile with his newest acquaintance, raising his glass in a toast. She said nothing, but her smile said everything. The longer Ayen stared at Tuka, the more she reminded him of Alissa. He felt a strange sense of peace sitting with his latest drinking companion, one that he was sure would continue.
"Perhaps my mission can wait, the night's young after all." He thought to himself with a smile as he downed one of what was sure to be many more glasses of wine.
…..
In the center of this sprawling mass of tents and soldiery was a singular vast tent that dominated everything around it. Calling it a simple tent belies the grandeur that was the main command center of the Coalition, as it was made of grand silks brought from the Far East and surrounded by a small army of soldiers. Inside that gargantuan tent were four men sitting around a large table.
Those four men were in the middle of a feast, each meal as varied as the man himself. Amongst the cheers of the four conquerors, the beaten face of Conn O'Brien stood out. While the food on his plate was as rich and grand as his captors, the Irishman refused to eat.
"These Godless heathens could have poisoned my food, and I won't give them the satisfaction of watching me die." He sneered as he began to look around the room.
It was larger inside, that much was obvious. Not that he expected the command tent of these powerful men would be small. But it sprawled out into what felt like a small field of silk that shifted with the wind. Soldiers of all sorts were standing behind their respective lords, each group eyeing him with their hands on their blades. "Romans standing next to rabbit women, green-skinned beasts next to dark-skinned warriors; what madness is this?" He thought to himself as his "hosts" chatted amongst themselves. Their unknown language reminded him vaguely of the Latin he was taught by his tutor.
A gust of wind sent a shiver up his spine as the tent flap was opened for someone. Craning his neck, Conn spied an elderly man shuffling forwards with the gait common amongst the aged, his hands clutching a large staff. All the talking ceased as the three lords nodded in greeting towards the elderly man, who smiled and bowed his head in response. For a moment, they talked amongst themselves before the old man shuffled forwards to Conn, his grey eyes peering at him behind a pair of bushy eyebrows.
"Greetings my lord, I do hope that your time with us has been pleasant." His voice was friendly, something that immediately made Conn suspicious.
"You've slaughtered my men, dragged me here against my will and now pretend to be my friend? What a crock of shit!" He yelled, slamming his hand onto the table. Conn glared at the old man, expecting him to take offence, but to his surprise, the elderly man began to laugh.
"Oh my, it appears you still have some fire left in you….excellent!" He said with a hoarse guffaw before turning back to his fellows.
"My lords, I do believe that a conversation is in order."
…
Kayembe stared at the captured lord through the eyes of his favourite bird, soaking in every detail before he spoke. He felt his body ache for sleep as he slowly rose from his chair, but this was far more important.
"Ask him about his gods. We saw many in their temple, strange idols of stone. What powers do they have?" His warriors muttered amongst themselves at the memory of those bizarre idols.
"Who cares about the gods, we need to know if we'll be attacked. The Gate is only guarded by eight hundred of our soldiers, and they're already stretched thin. The last thing we need is another enemy force to appear." Gratius grumbled from his seat, a simple soldier's ration on his plate. "The only blessing is that it looks like winter is coming, so that should slow our enemies down."
"We need to know about their weapons, those thundering pipes and the Great Thunderer would be invaluable to our campaign." Count Formal added with a calm smile on his face as he stared at his allies.
Lucius, to his credit, simply bowed his head and turned back to the captured lord. They began to speak rapidly in the local tongue, a beautiful language that flowed into the ear with ease. As they spoke, the gathered lords began to get a handle on their prisoner. He spoke loudly and brashly, slamming his fist on the table while he spoke. After a few quick barking answers from the prisoner, Lucius turned away and shuffled towards the sitting lords.
"His name is Conn O'Brien, and he is a Lord of the Kingdom of Ireland. I have already spoken to the priest that Legate Gratius had taken to the Medici and this confirms things for me."
"Such as?" Kayembe asked, feeling annoyed with all this waiting.
"This land, Ireland, is in the middle of a civil war. The entire country is fighting against itself as it tries to ward off a foreign invader."
"Not just us, I take it?" Gratius asked with a chuckle.
"I'm afraid not my Legate. To the north of us are the lands held by the Kingdom of England and their vassals." He shuffled forwards, pulling out a crumpled map that was hidden amongst his robes. With one bony finger, he pointed to the northern chunk of the map. "They control almost everything north of us, with the south being held by those who resist the invasion. Those who fight against England are spread out across almost the entire country, with English and their vassals raiding the frontier constantly. Lord O'Brien had marched his forces to fight us because he thought we were Englishmen!" He said with a guffaw.
"We need to expand our influence in this land and to do that we need their weapons. Our soldiers are veterans and can hold the line, but that doesn't count for much if they're dead before they can reach the enemy. Ask him about their weapons and how to make them." Count Formal said from his seat, a small plate of grapes in front of him.
Lucius shuffled back towards Lord O'Brien and began to ask him more questions. His captive audience seemed to be hesitant to respond, and even from their position, the lords could tell the elderly man was losing his patience. After another round of bickering, Lucius turned to face his allies once more, bowing his head.
"Their weapons are called muskets my lords, they are complicated weapons to make, so much so that it requires a specialized craftsman. They are inaccurate except at close range as we have experienced for ourselves, and they take quite a while to reload once fired."
"So they're practically worthless then," Gratius said with a wave of his one hand.
"Not entirely my Legate, they can kill an armoured man at close range and render their armour useless. Such a weapon would be very useful against Saderan Legions, but they pale in comparison to the next tool."
"That would be the Great Thunderer." Count Formal said, his eyes flashing with excitement.
"Aye Count Formal, that is called a cannon. They are usually used for siege battles due to their loading time and lack of accuracy. But their power is great indeed if used properly, castle walls are ripped apart by their wrath. They are filled with that black powder found next to the cannon alongside a metal ball; then they are fired towards the enemy. That is the simplest way to explain it."
"Are these also complicated to make?" The Count asked from his chair.
"Thankfully no my lord, all we need is a blacksmith with enough time on his hands. According to Lord O'Brien, the two men we captured alongside the cannon know how to maintain and use it. With their help, I believe that we can make cannons for ourselves within the month." Lucius said with a smile.
"Excellent!"
"But what of their gods? Kayembe asked, his sightless face curling into a sneer as his bird stared directly at O'Brien.
"I can answer that question oh great Kayembe, most of the country are called Catholics. They worship a collection of revered saints who in turn praise an almighty deity. They have priests who tend to the needs of the people. But according to the high priest that the Legate spared, corruption is a growing problem." The old wizard replied, leaning heavily on his staff to remain upright.
"So they have a pantheon of lesser gods that the faithful worship while a creator god watches over everything? Can we use this to our advantage?" Gratius asked, his scarred face looking more like a slab of stone than flesh and blood.
"I believe we can, as there is another faith in Ireland, one that England is attempting to force upon the people here. It is called Protestantism, and according to our captive priest, it is an offshoot of the main faith. It is my suggestion that we use this divide to our advantage." Lucius stroked his beard as he stared at the Lords.
"How would you suggest we do this? What if they have Apostles on their side? Our war would be over before it started!" Kayembe shouted
"That is where both our priest and our guest can work for us. I have already asked the priest to join us in exchange for purging the corruption that infests his faith. If we have a high priest on our side, that would go a long way to ease the people's fears of us."
"Faith is useful, but that cannot win us the war," Gratius grumbled from his seat, taking a slow sip of wine as he glared at Kayembe.
"Of course not my Legate. That is where Lord O'Brien comes into play. His estate is south of us, but his connections to other nobility are what truly matters in the end. With time, we could have many more allies in this land." Lucius said with a smile, slowly shuffling forwards to stare at his allies. "We offer them peace, security and their faith, and we gain auxiliaries with local knowledge."
"We gain access to local markets, safe passage through the countryside, and a shared enemy in England. Of course, we will meet resistance along the way, but I believe that if we use the locals correctly, we'll cut the conquest time in half." The Legate replied, a smile beginning to grow on his face
"Are we all agreed then my lords?"
The other three lords looked at each other, from the eyeless face of Kayembe to the friendly smile of Formal; they all nodded.
"Make the offer, Lord Rutilius."
"As you wish my friend." The aged wizard said with a bow of his bald head. He turned to the pale face of Lord O'Brien and couldn't help but grin as he felt the power he held over him. For the first time in sixty years, he had that power, and he knew that he couldn't let it slip away.
…
Conn O'Brien stared in confusion as he sat at the table, that wizened old man being the go-between himself and his captors. He noticed that the shuffling old man bowed and spoke softly to the others, but his voice seemed to drip with power.
"Who is this man? He looks like he'll drop dead any moment, but the others listen to him." His musings were interrupted by that ever-friendly voice.
"Lord O'Brien, thank you for being so cooperative. It's quite refreshing to have a friendly conversation for a change, usually, it's all threats and pain."
"I didn't see a point in drawing things out. If you're going to kill me, I didn't see the point in suffering." Conn grumbled from his chair.
"Kill you? Oh no, we aren't going to kill you. We have an offer for you." Lucius waved his hand as if to dismiss the notion entirely. "How would you like to kill Protestants?"
Conn blinked. "Go on…"
"I understand that you would wish to keep your life, and we desire a man the locals would respect."
"So I would be your servant?" Conn rose out of his chair, a look of rage on his bearded face.
"Of course not! You would keep your land, your title and your faith. You will lead your fellows into battle against the dreaded Protestants."
"Why would I kill my countrymen for you?" Conn narrowed his eyes at the old man.
"Because they are godless heathens who desire your death. At least we are willing to negotiate, so shall we bargain?" Lucius leaned forward on his staff as if to tower over
"...Very well, but I want to be paid."
"Done. It only makes sense that someone of your standing would be paid appropriately. We aren't animals after all. We ask that you teach us how to make muskets and black powder, or find us someone who can."
Conn paused, the image of this barbaric army getting their hands on gunpowder sent a chill down his spine. Noticing his hesitation, Lucius continued.
"In exchange, you and your people will be free from slavery. You have my word, Lord O'Brien."
"You will never take Catholics as slaves?"
"Never, but we demand our right to take Protestants and non-Catholics as loot."
"That is...acceptable."
"Excellent! We cannot wait to begin working with you." Lucius smiled brightly, looking for all the world like a doting grandfather.
The shrunken old man shuffled around to face the other men, and he nodded his bald head. The four men began to smile, their eyes boring a hole into Conn's soul.
"May God have mercy on me for what I am about to do." That thought rose amongst the chaos, borrowing inside his mind like a tumour. With a shake of his head, Lord Conn O'Brien stared at his plate.
"Sometimes it takes a deal with the Devil to make things right." He thought to himself as he began to eat. "At least there's food in this special circle of Hell." He said with a chuckle as one bite became two, one gulp of wine became five; as the night wore away…
….
Imperial Palace
Sadera
The Imperial Throne Room was a beautiful and horrible place to find oneself in. Grand pillars hold a marble ceiling in place, while the Senate floor was almost always filled with bickering landlords and nobles. Every day was filled with debates and nearly avoided brawls amongst that landed gentry. All the while His Imperial Majesty Molt Sol Augustus would look on from his throne.
But the Senate floor was silent tonight, as it was every night. The only occupant was the man who sat on a golden throne. A single candle barely illuminated his features, casting shadows over his blonde mustache and brown eyes. Molt Sol Augustus, Emperor of the Saderan Empire, was tired. But despite the late hour, sleep eluded him.
"There's too much to do." He thought wearily to himself. "It's a never-ending stream of demands for more troops in one frontier or another. It doesn't matter to the Senate that our coffers are practically barren, they just want to one-up their rivals." The memories of those bleating Senators sent a flash of anger coursing through his body.
The ornate doors to the throne room creaked open, spilling the light of a lantern into the otherwise dark room. "Silver for your thoughts Father?" The monotone voice of Diablo El Ceaser filled the room. He entered the room quietly, a large sack in his hand.
"Ah, Diablo, welcome home. How was your campaign in the East?" The Emperor asked, a tired smile on his face.
"Eventful my lord. The Eastern Provinces were overrun by the Emirate's armies. After a gruelling campaign, my four Legions crushed their forces. But it was only after we occupied the former capital that things became...unusual." Diablo replied.
"Well? Don't keep me in suspense." The Emperor said with a smile.
The blank-faced Diablo dumped the sack onto the floor, spilling a hefty number of severed heads onto the marble.
"There was a reason why my campaign was so difficult, my Lord. Wherever we went, our supplies were gone, the wells were poisoned and we found our men dead in the morning. Wherever we thought we'd find shelter, we found spears." Diablo sneered as he placed each head back into the bag.
"The local Lords had been planning a secession from the Empire for decades. They had waited until Legate Gratius Lupicinus had left to join Count Formal's expedition. The moment his forces had left, their forces began their campaign."
"But they were crushed under your foot my son. The Saderan Empire is proud of you...as am I. You have brought order to chaos, and you are home." Emperor Molt rose to his feet and walked down the steps of the throne, embracing his son.
"You ordered me home, and so I obey." Diablo's face was blank as he stood still in his father's embrace, as if unsure what to do.
"I know you aren't like your siblings, my son. I know that you prefer to work with paper and numbers over the sword. I want you to know that I love you and that I'm very happy that you're home." Molt spoke softly to his son, a gentle smile on his tired face.
"Father…I-"
The moment was broken however by a sudden bursting of horns. A grand host marched into the throne room, their gilded armour and carved helmets hiding their faces. The man at the head of this host fell to his knees in front of the throne. The grandly armoured men followed suit, a dozen suits of armour glinting softly in the singular candlelight.
"My Emperor! We have returned from the North with tales of glory and conquest!" The man's voice echoed out from behind his helmet, becoming more metallic than man. "Those savages fell before our charge like snow before the sun!" With a cheer, the man rose to his feet, removing his helmet to reveal his smiling face.
"Welcome home Prince Zorzal! The bards have already begun to sing of your latest victories!" The Emperor said with a laugh, clapping his Crown Prince on the shoulder. "Tell me, what news do you have from the Northern Frontier?"
Zorzal began to laugh once more, his long blonde hair bouncing about as he laughed. "The hardest part of my campaign was getting there. Our enemies fled before our standards, only attacking us when they had overwhelming numbers." As he spoke, his men cheered and rose to their feet. Many stomped on the Senate Floor, their armoured feet slamming against the marble floor.
"Their wicked and depraved hosts fell upon us, eager for our blood my Lord! They swarmed us like a thousand insects, but it takes more than vermin to halt the might of Sadera's finest!" He said with a roaring laugh, jumping about his grand host, their cheers adding to his own.
The Emperor smiled, sitting back down on his throne with Diablo sitting at his left. "Well then, it appears that you have once again brought victory to our family. For that, I praise you, my son. May all the Gods bless you, may they bless you all!"
Crown Prince Zorzal's face broke into a broad smile, sitting on his father's right as he stared at his brother. "Diablo, I'm glad to see your safe return. How did you fare in the East? I hear it's fucking hot, but I'm told the women make it somewhat bearable." He said with another round of laughter spilling out of his lips. His guards bowed their heads and left the throne room, leaving the three men alone. Diablo stared at his chuckling brother with his blank expression, waiting until he was silent to speak.
"...The East had an unbearable heat brother, but nothing I couldn't handle. The local aristocracy saw themselves as new masters among their kind. I showed them their error of judgement." He said coldly, an almost bored expression beginning to grow on his face as he spoke.
"Why did you summon us? The Northern Frontier hasn't been crushed yet, those savages could rise against us at any moment."
"I too had more work to finish. The East is hardly stable, I had to resort to placing local auxiliaries in charge of our territories when I left. The Shah's spies have already been infesting our foothold there."
"I summoned you here because our empire is threatened. I know that by now, you both must have heard of the Gate that had appeared on Alnus Hill."
"And you've summoned us to carry your banner in glorious conquest?" Zorzal jumped to his feet.
"Calm yourself brother, our father isn't finished talking."
"Sadly Zorzal, you and your brother will not be going through Hardy's Gate. That position has already been filled by Count Formal. He's gathered allies and together they've been on campaign for almost a month now."
"Well, that's good for us isn't it? The Formal clan has been loyal to us for generations. He wouldn't dare betray us if only to save his family and his precious Demihumans." Zorzal replied, slouching in his seat as he tried to be comfortable.
"That's the problem, Zorzal. He's brought his family and all his servants with him through the Gate. He asked to pay for this venture through his coffers, leaving us with little to no way of knowing what is going on."
"If you worry so much father, why don't you lead your forces to demand an explanation? If he has nothing to hide, then you can brush this off as a bad joke. But if he's truly planning treachery, then we can kill him before he can act against us." Diablo said, his eyes narrowing as he spoke.
"I can't openly act against him, Diablo. He and I signed a contract for this expedition. If I openly break such a deal with the head of the largest merchant guilds in my empire, we'll soon find ourselves with no money and armies of angry guildsmen battering down our doors. As much as I trust the two of you, Formal would be far too suspicious of you to get any real answers out of him."
"So who do we send then?"
"Someone we all trust, but has a reputation for honesty."
As if summoned by magic, the doors were swung open and a host of knights marched in. But as the candlelight reached them, it was obvious that these weren't grizzled Legionaries or haughty cavaliers. The knights wore ornate white armour, each piece was crafted by the most skilled blacksmiths in the Empire. Their standard-bearer carried aloft a crimson flag with a rose in the middle, its splendour only somewhat tarnished by the wear and tear of the battlefield.
But it was the most obvious sight that would have drawn the eye more than the grand armour and brilliant heraldry. Almost all of these knights were women, each one holding themselves with pride.
The few knights that were men were older, with greying hair and faces like old leather. As one, the large host saluted the Emperor and his sons, parting for a single young woman to stand at the front.
Her red hair stood out amongst the crowd, as did her burgundy eyes. She walked slowly towards the three men, her expression unreadable. As she reached the steps before the throne, she smiled, bowing her head towards the Emperor.
"My Lord Father, I hope you're doing well." She said, staring at his tired features with concern.
"As well as I can be my dear. Welcome home Pina, I've heard so much about your campaign but I would love to hear about it from you." Emperor Molt said, his role as a father slipping out as he smiled broadly at his only daughter.
Princess Pina Co Molt, the Grandmaster of the Rose Order Knights, smiled as wildly as Zorzal before she began to speak. "My Lord, to tell you about my victory, I have to start at the beginning. You remember sending my three hundred knights to patrol our border with the Kingdom of Mudwan?"
"Of course, their rulers have long been a rebellious lot."
"That's not all my Lord, as my Rose Knights arrived I began to see the truth. The ruling families of Mudwan treat their people and slaves with complete and utter cruelty. They have the dismembered limbs of their subjects delivered to the families of the victims, they skin the commoners alive. They force the families of criminals to watch as they're tortured to death before being forced to carry the corpse to a mass grave. " Pina's face contorted into a sneer as she spoke, clenching her fist in rage.
"Their slavers would hire pirates to raid the nearby coasts, as they needed a constant flow of new slaves to replace their stock. A slave in Mudwan lasts a mere year before they are horrifically injured or killed."
"Those fiends!" Zorzal thundered as he jumped to his feet, his eyes burning with rage. "The utter waste of life is despicable!"
"While slavery is a necessary part of our empire, the cruelty of Mudwan has long been an issue." The Emperor agreed, his gaze was stern as he glowered towards the south, where Mudwan loomed. "Their slave markets are the largest in the known world, and it's that power that's stopped my father and grandfather from curbing their might."
"Their desire for more slaves ultimately led to the Lords of Mudwan enslaving lesser nobles and priests. Their slave markets were filled with the sons and daughters of families loyal to us. They asked….no, they begged me to aid them, to save their children from the lash. It is my duty as Princess of the Saderan Empire to protect my people, and by the Gods, I wasn't going to let them down!" As Pina spoke, her eyes flared to life, revealing a blazing fire that rivalled her boisterous brother.
"What did you do next sister?" Diablo's usually bland expression was starting to brighten as he leaned forwards in his seat.
"I joined the forces of those loyal to us, a mighty host of ten thousand. My Rose Knights may have been unsullied by war, but they've been trained by the best; so I had no real concerns about the results. The levies that our allies gathered acted as little more than something to hold those vile slavers in place while my cavalry alongside mercenaries positioned ourselves for the charge." She smirked as her Rose Knights began to chuckle amongst themselves.
"The slavers of Mudwan had been fighting little more than desperate peasants and militias for decades now, and they'd gotten lazy. All it took was a single glorious charge, and we cut through those wretches with ease!" Pina said with a shout, a large smile beginning to grow on her face.
"I see that your numbers have grown considerably Pina, found some admirers eh?" Zorzal said with a leering chuckle as he stared at the host of women that stood before him.
"These aren't your type of woman dear brother, they will happily bite back," Pina replied, her brother smirking back in response. "After we broke through the enemy lines, I led the charge through their markets, saving anyone we could and killing their captors. For every one woman I saved, there were ten that had already been despoiled; their families disowning them in shame. They had nowhere to go, no families to keep them safe; so how could I do nothing? Two hundred women agreed to join me as light cavalry, while a further hundred are skilled in the art of medicine. They have sworn an oath to serve the Saderan Empire until their dying day, and we will travel to Hardy's Realm should you order it."
As one, the host of six hundred Rose Knights dropped to their knees, each one clutching their swords. Each one had now seen a horror of the world, be it the rapacious appetites of vile men, or the blood-soaked battlefield. Each one stared at the grand throne room and the man who had sent their saviour, and as one they cheered. "For Sadera, for the Emperor!"
Emperor Molt rose slowly from his throne, his expression unreadable as he stared at his daughter. For a moment, the Emperor of Sadera said nothing, the silence hanging like a blade over everyone's heads. That moment seemed to drag on forever, only breaking when the Emperor spoke.
"My daughter, my only daughter, you are more precious to me than all the jewels in my empire. I've done my best to keep you safe, but it appears that trouble finds you anyways." He said, his tired face breaking into a smile. "You claim that your Rose Knights would travel into Hardy's Realm should I order it?"
"Yes, father, for you, we would do anything. I would do anything." The Princess replied, her burgundy eyes flashing with excitement.
"Very well then, it appears that you'll have your chance. You've probably already heard rumours about Hardy's Gate appearing on Alnus Hill. I have already sent a force through to conquer the lands beyond, but I would feel better if someone I trusted was there. Someone like you Pina. You've proven yourself to me that your Rose Knights are capable and are worthy of this important task." He paused and stared at his daughter, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Will you do this for me? For the Saderan Empire?"
"Of course we will!" She shot back, a large smile growing on her face.
"Now go my daughter, go and make me proud! May you carry our banner through Hardy's Gate with pride, for you are my voice. All of Sadera shall praise your courage and prayers shall be given to the Gods for your safety. Make them see you for the warriors I know you to be."
"Thank you father, I will not fail you!" Pina yelled, bowing for a final time before her host erupted with cheers. Those Noblewomen and those grizzled veterans alike burst into laughter and salutes for the Imperial Throne, their loyalty finally paying off. With a final cheer, the host left the throne room, leaving the Emperor and his two sons alone.
There was a great silence that followed, swallowing the giant room instantly after that gargantuan crowd left. For what felt like forever, there was nothing. Nothing but the three men and the flickering candles. The silence was broken by Diablo leaning forward at his father, his brow furrowed.
"You didn't tell her about Molt's possible treachery, Father." He said, a touch of concern in his voice.
"What if they capture or kill her? We'll be shamed beyond measure!" Zorzal bellowed, slamming his fist down. His eyes were alight with rage and disgust towards his father, even as the Emperor began to laugh.
"Now now my sons, don't tell me you believed that tripe I spilled? Are you all so dense?" His smile became cold as he sat back down. "No, it doesn't matter to me if the Rose Knights survive their little venture. If they survive, I'll happily give them a job guarding the Imperial Throne."
Zorzal seethed at that, staring at his father in disbelief. "That's my position! My honour! You'd give it away to that whore's daughter!?" His shouting quickly faded away as the Emperor glowered at him as he loomed over the Crown Prince.
"That is why it would be such a shame if such a promising group of women were to be cut down serving the Saderan Empire. History would surely remember them as heroes….or perhaps they'll simply be known as women who forgot their place." His cold smile remained on his face as spoke, staring at his two sons with an equally chilling glare.
"We've made our move, now let us see how our dear Count responds." The Emperor began to chuckle softly to himself in that dark throne room. As he laughed, the shadows threatened to swallow everything, returning everything to the void that all had come from.
…
December 1641
Ireland
After spending a decade in the employ of Count Formal, Jarl Lili Rathaus had learned to appreciate many things. A warm roof over her head, a safe place to call home, and a bed that she shares with the Count who kept her safe for a start.
"I've gone from longhouses to manors, from rags to riches." She thought to herself with a chuckle.
"Something funny my dear?" Colt's voice slowly rose out from his side of their bed. She rolled around to see the face of her love and employer.
"It's nothing important, my lord." She purred with her best seductive voice, causing him to laugh as he began to get ready for the day.
Lili's ears could hear every breath the Count made, every muffled voice from outside their tent; but she smiled nonetheless as she began putting on her clothes and armour.
"This country is damp, the wind feels like it's going to rip my head off, and it never stops raining….I love it here!" She spied the forms of her warriors standing guard outside as she put on her armour.
As they exited the tent, Lili's ears flattened against the back of her helmet in a vain attempt to avoid the rain. The clouds were black and heavy, unleashing their payload of water upon everyone inside their fortified camp. "Damn fine time to continue a siege." She thought to herself, the Count's bodyguard and her Housecarls forming a protective shield around them.
Lili stared at the ordered chaos of the camp, a sense of nostalgia welling up in her stomach. Her warriors, her sisters were readying themselves for war. They sang the ancient songs, offered sacrifices and gifts to Woton, one of Emory's many names. Small armies of slaves scurried around the camp, offering food and drink to the gathered warriors.
"It's quite a sight, seeing your host again. I promised you this, all those years ago my dear." Colt's voice was warm as he offered her his arm; which she took.
As they continued to wander throughout the camp, the air was quickly being filled by the sounds of bellowing men and women. As the group rushed towards the source, Lili froze as she spied the banner that hung over the final tent of Bunny Warriors. "Damn it all!" She thought with a sneer.
Near the center of the camp flew a tattered grey flag; a white human skull being placed in the middle. A group of horribly scarred Bunny Warriors surrounded the flag, their weapons clutched tightly as they jeered and yelled. Each Bunny Warrior that had gathered under that flag saluted when she and the Count had arrived, clearing a path for them.
"What's all this about Lili?" Colt whispered to her as the shouting quickly fell silent. "I knew that Gratius's Legion was angry at you, but this seems different."
Lili paused, silently hoping that she could ward off an explanation by staying silent. She looked around at the group of a hundred or so Bunny Warriors that had surrounded the flag, and Lili felt a shiver of disgust run up her back. "That flag belongs to Ragna's Ravagers, a host of mercenaries that were once a part of my realm. They were hated by both Saderan Legions and peasants alike thanks to their love of vice and violence."
"That sounds like most mercenaries, what made these Ravagers so special?"
"They enjoyed breaking the wills of the men they captured in battle. They'd violate husbands in front of their wives, and keep captured Imperial Legionaries as concubines. Ragna herself kept a Saderan Governor whose tongue she had ripped out as a manservant. They disappeared after the war, with Ragna herself never being seen again." As she spoke, Lili felt the eyes of countless Legionaries boring a hole into her. Their worn faces were twisted into hideous sneers as they stood a stone's throw from that hateful banner.
"They sound like a rather ruthless lot, but you didn't tell me about why this particular Legion hates them. They're raiders, not someone the Legions would usually trouble themselves with." Colt's voice became somewhat stern as he stared at her. "If this could cause a problem, I would have liked to know about it."
"That's something to discuss later, my Lord. Perhaps in a less tense moment?" The harsh voice of Legate Gratius cracked through the air like a whip. He and his ever-loyal Centurion marched through the mass of men, their faces seemingly set in stone. Lili and the Count quickly followed their lead, bringing the two groups together in a sea of tense silence. The four leaders were shepherding their flocks out of the camp and out into a clearing that overlooked the latest problem that lay before them.
A castle of grey stone squatted in front of them, their walls holding strong against the horrific elements. It was rather small in comparison to the lordly estates that Lili was used to, looking more like a fortified manor than a true castle. A beautiful lake caressed the northern part of it, with a few boats bobbing above the water. It was an almost calming sight, with the rain slowly tapering off and pockets of sunlight bursting through the dark clouds. But that calm was shattered the moment Lili took a long look at the castle before her.
A massive swath of grass had been turned to ash, singular scattered corpses could be seen, their blackened bones and charred marrow exposed to the elements. The air was filled with the wild prayers of the Mwenye Haki as they praised the might of nature, their forms are easily seen as they burned large bonfires to send black clouds of smoke into the air. A flock of birds swirled about in the sky, their cawing driving needles into her back.
As Lili stared at those pillars of ebony, she realized that they were more than simple religious offerings.
"They're blocking the enemy's line of sight," She thought to herself as she stared at the billowing pillars of choking smoke that was flying into the walls.
Lili's ears were suddenly drawn to the sounds of inhuman chanting from the front of the camp. It was a deep rumbling that seemed to pour into the heavens themselves, begging the gods for a reckoning. Facing the castle were thousands of Orcs, their tusked faces oddly serene amongst the chaos around them. Despite the rain and wind that pelted them, they remained sitting on the ground.
But that alien sight paled in comparison to the final oddity in their camp. The top of the hill was filled with Onager Catapults and Scorpio siege engines, groups of men working to load and fire their deadly wrath. Large stones were sent hurtling through the air to collide with those stoic grey walls, chunks of stone crumbling to the ground with each volley. The air around this section of the camp was filled with the stench that always followed hard labour alongside the creaking cacophony of leather and sinew. The stones were silent in their wrath as they unleashed themselves upon those stone walls, each strike bringing a cheer among the engineers. But it was the newest addition to this menagerie that made everyone pause to stare.
They were thirteen in number, each one was a ten feet long tube that rested on a small cart. They were a curious sight, being either dull grey or equally dim bronze. Those strange machines were being prayed over by a priest of Duncan, God of Blacksmiths; that grizzled cleric ensured that his patron blesses these new weapons of war. But the cleric wasn't the only holy man on the hill, for that strange Irish priest, "Dominic I believe." Lili thought to herself. The Catholic Abbot also blessed each war machine, his garbled Saderan reaching her ears as easily as if he was right next to her.
Each cannon was attended to by a dozen engineers, all of them being Orcs, as they were drawn to the grand display of power such engines could unleash.
"It's amazing what a few months of training can do. The Orcs of Yatra truly are a cut above their rural cousins." Count Formal said with a chuckle as he looked at the sight of those Orcs carrying crates of black powder and boxes of ammunition.
"It helped that they had something to work with. We had a cannon to base our designs on alongside having people who could maintain what we had. It was a good omen that Lady Rutilius was the first to volunteer for the artillery cohort." Gracious replied with a stern expression on his face.
"However we got here, we're here my Lords. These thirteen artillery pieces are the start of our new arsenal. Soon, we'll have enough artillery to turn even Sadera's walls to ash!" A voice like thunder boomed into Lili's sensitive ears, causing her to wince.
Devika Rutilius's towering body stood out amongst the sea of Orcs, her ornate armour exchanged for a simple shirt and breeches. Her short dark hair and the single grey eye were the other things to set her apart from her fellow Orcs, and Lili couldn't help but stare. Her powder-blackened hands stroked the cannons lovingly, a soft humming noise escaping her lips.
"Are they ready Lady Rutilius?" Count Formal said with a slight bow, a friendly smile on his face. The smiling Orc bowed in response, gesturing to the gunnery crews that were working as if no one was there.
"This castle is a pathetic thing, but the walls are sturdy. I'd say it'll be good target practice!" She guffawed, her tusks giving her face a bestial appearance.
"Parke's Castle is more than that, at least to me." The rotund form of Lord Conn O'Brien broke through the Orcs that were swarming about the hill. The Irishman was wearing a large hat atop his head, which was keeping most of the rain off his beard. As he looked over his ranks of pikemen, he pulled out a pipe and began to puff small clouds of smoke into the air.
"Parke's Castle is a reminder of the English's tyranny in our lands. That humble tower is all that remains of the great Sir Brian O'Rourke. A patriot who fought and died in his struggle against the English dogs. And now they squat in our lands, defiling it with their stench." He said with a sneer on his face, glaring at the walls that loomed before him.
"However vile those walls are Lord O'Brien, I can assure you that these beauties will do just fine against them," Devika said with the tone most would reserve for speaking of a beloved than simple artillery pieces. "So my Lords, let us see my babies at work!" The towering Orc said with her proud smile never leaving her face.
The engineers cheered and laughed amongst themselves as they were given their orders, with each cannon being carefully loaded with a six-pound iron ball. The lordly host stared at the scene, each one holding their breath as they waited. Each second passed on as rain and thunder slammed down around them, the wind being little more than an annoyance. And then, it happened, the air being split apart by the sound of thundering death known to Ireland as the cannon. But Lili stared in awe at the sight, feeling Woton's eye upon her, His mighty hand slammed down upon their enemies.
The thirteen cannons slammed through the ancient stone walls with startling ease, doing the work of weeks in a manner of seconds. In an instant, a gaping hole replaced the stone, and the Coalition cheered.
"By the Gods…" Lili heard Gratius whisper to himself as his scarred face broke into an awed expression. They all looked on in awe, staring at the damage their glorious engines of war could bring. Count Formal began to laugh, his handsome features breaking into a brilliant smile.
"Onwards my friends! Once more through the breach! Charge!"
With a bellow that rivalled the roar of the cannons, the soldiers began to march, Human and Demihuman feet shaking the earth.
"These weapons are a gift from the Gods my Lords, a sign that our cause is just." Kayembe's voice appeared from behind the group, a large bird on his shoulder. As he walked up the hill, Lili could see the large grin on his face.
"The Gods are with us! They are showing us the way to victory! These marvellous weapons will be our path to salvation, through metal and fire we shall prevail! A new day is dawning, and it shall be glorious!" He shouted, his eyeless face alive with fervour and the excitement that only a fanatic could muster.
As he spoke, Lili's inhuman eyes could see the forms of his men skulking into battle lines behind the blocks of O'Brien's pikemen. The former were whipping themselves into a frenzy, their shamans leading the charge. The Irishmen were freshly trained, barely above drafted peasants, but they too began to march forwards. They sang of their God and their country, their voices nearly drowned out by the chaos around them.
The sounds of her sisters chanting added another note to the chorus of war, each Bunny Warrior roaring and howling to the sky. Each Warrior charged towards the opening, moving far faster than their Human counterparts, eager for slaves and glory. The Legion moved slowly, their large shields blocking out the rain and whatever else that could come their way. They sang no songs, but they moved as one man, each step thundering out like a drum.
Her ears were drawn back to the harsh laughing of the Orcs of Yatra. They scurried about the hill, loading the Onager Catapults and Cannons eagerly. Their alien tongue bounced around Lili's ears, sounding like nothing she's ever heard before. And as the siege engines let off another volley, she smiled.
"A glorious day indeed." She said to herself as the battle was joined, and the world was changed once more.
…..
And so, we end another chapter. I hope you're all enjoying this tale so far, I know I am. Stay classy, stay awesome and have a lovely day.